


White Knight

by Elvesliketrees



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Attempted Rape, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Protective Athos, Protective brothers, Violence, Whump!d'Artagnan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-16
Updated: 2015-03-16
Packaged: 2018-03-18 02:35:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3552845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elvesliketrees/pseuds/Elvesliketrees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He'd only been trying to protect her honor. When one man goes too far with a barmaid and d'Artagnan intervenes, no one could have foreseen the consequences. A d'Artagnan whump story, featuring protective Musketeers!</p>
            </blockquote>





	White Knight

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys, this is my first time writing for the fandom, so I thought I'd give it a go! Thank you for reading and please feel free to comment!

     It was a bright morning, made all the brighter by the light hearts in one spot near the center of Paris. There, about twenty men were assembled under the morning’s shadows. The men were surrounded by a garrison, worn but lovingly cared for. While cluttered, it was obvious that there was an organization to the space. The twenty men were standing in lines of four, with a gap in their middle, large enough for three to walk abreast. Today was a special day. The weapons of the men gleamed and smiles plastered their faces. Their clothes were readied with an attention that may have bordered on obsession. At the head of this gleaming company stood a lone man. His brown hair was trimmed short and crisp, and his clothing had the look of something that has been newly washed. His smile rivaled those of the company, but there was something extra in his eyes, a father’s pride. No man that day complained about the harshness of the morning sun, yawned in protest of being wakened at an early hour, or had the lines of worry that came with preparing for a difficult task.

     The lone man stood and waited. Yesterday had been a day of words, of a young man kneeling down in front of a dark-haired king and swearing oaths of loyalty, honor, and sacrifice. Today, the man would be welcomed into the ranks of his men. In his heart, the man knew that the young d’Artagnan had already found his way into the hearts of his Musketeers. This was only a formality, something to make that bond official. A hush fell over the company as four figures presented themselves at the gates of the garrison. Three of the figures carried wrapped packages. The figures arranged themselves in a shape, one Musketeer leading the group, the new Musketeer behind him, and the other two flanking him. In the front was a brown-haired man. Tall and proud he stood, bearing a ruggedness that showed a man hardened by life, though an inner nobility still flickered behind his eyes and throughout his bearing. His brown hair had undergone a rare taming for the occasion. His lips were curled into a genuine smile, lines showing that this was a rare treat indeed. Behind him stood a figeting man, though some might call him a mere boy. He rocked from one leg to the other, eager and ready. His eyes shone with unrestrained happiness, and his face held a grin that was larger than the one he usually bore. On his right stood a man larger than any of the figures. Muscles rippled under his dark doublet, though his eyes told of a warm heart that was as large and welcoming as any. The man on the left beheld the grave situation with a smirk, laughter dancing in his eyes. His hat bore more feathers than usual, his boots had undergone an even fiercer cleaning. And yet, for all his laughter, his eyes watered with what could only be tears of joy. As one, they started forward. When they came to a halt in front of Captain Treville of the Musketeers, a lone man standing in front of a gleaming company, they halted. “Today,” Treville intoned, “We welcome Charles d’Artagnan of Lupiac in Gascony into the ranks of the King’s Musketeers. With him stand his three teachers, ready to pledge his worthiness. First, Musketeer Athos, his main instructor and he who taught this man the sword shall pledge.” With these words, Athos stepped forward.

     “I, Athos, instructed this man in the use of the sword and find his skills worthy of the King’s Musketeers. In honor of this, I present him with this sword,” Athos said with a cracking voice. Tears gleamed on the edges of his eyes. He unwrapped the cloth from the package, revealing a sword. The make was much like his own, with an plain, yet intricate handle and plain blade. With a beaming smile, Athos handed d’Artagnan the blade, and the young lad buckled it to his belt with a smile. Next, Porthos stepped forward.

     “I, Porthos, instructed this man in the use of ‘is fists and find ‘is skills worthy of the King’s Musketeers. In honor of this, I present him with this pauldron,” Porthos stated. He unwrapped a tan pauldron of leather and buckled it to d’Artagnan’s doublet. Finally, Aramis stepped forward.

     “I, Aramis, instructed this man in the use of the pistol and find his skills worthy of the King’s Musketeers. In honor of this, I present him with this cloak,” Aramis said with a beaming smile. He shook a blue cloak from the package and swept it over d’Artagnan’s shoulders, buttoning it and stepping back. d’Artagnan himself stepped forward and knelt in front of Treville.

     “If any man should have a complaint against this man, or should find reason to question his worthiness, I bid him step forward now,” Treville cried. The garrison was silent as a tomb, and Treville smiled. “Therefore, rise Charles d’Artagnan, King’s Musketeer,” Treville said softly. d’Artagnan rose slowly and turned to face the regiment. Porthos bellowed out a great cheer and Aramis tossed his good hat into the hair with a smile. Athos gathered d’Artagnan into a warm and rare embrace, clasping the other hand to the back of d’Artagnan’s neck. The young man beamed up at him and his eyes watered at the unrestrained pride in Athos’ eyes. The two separated and allowed the others to offer their congratulations, it seemed that everyone in the regiment had words for the new recruit. Porthos came up and clasped him on the arm.

     “We’ll have to teach him how to drink like a Musketeer tonight!” the big man boomed.

     “I thought we tried that on his birthday,” Aramis mused.

     “And look how well that turned out,” Athos said dryly.

     “It was just a hangover,” d’Artagnan muttered.

     “Yeah, and the fact that all three of us woke up naked in some mademoiselle’s house,” Porthos scoffed. Treville’s eyes bulged.

     “And the blacksmith’s horse, we never did figure out what we were going to do with him,” Aramis muttered.

     “I thought we swore never to speak of this,” d’Artagnan groaned.

     “No, I want to hear this, what about Athos?” Treville asked.

     “Um...we lost him sometime during the night and found him on Madame Bonacieux’s roof,” Aramis said, trying to pass it off as nonchalant.

     “And why, pray tell, was Athos on this good woman’s roof?” Treville asked.

     “We still aren’t sure, but he didn’t do anything that we know about, so now we just know to watch Athos,” Aramis chirped. Treville nodded slowly, and walked away, muttering something about “children”.

     “Ah well, for now you’ll work like a Musketeer, and tonight you’ll drink like one!” Aramis cried. With that, they went about their duties. When evening started to fall, the men dispersed either for duty or pleasure. The inseparables headed to the Golden Crown, their favorite tavern. The place was warm, the food was good, the women were better, and the wine was moderate, a rare thing for a Parisian tavern. However, the place was expensive, and so was reserved for birthdays and special occasions, such as that night. They entered the tavern to find half of the regiment already there. Athos went to the barkeep and returned with five bottles of wine, two of which went to himself. For a good hour the companions ate and drank freely. After they had finished eating, many of the regiment dispersed. Athos went for more wine and Aramis turned his attentions to a barmaid. Porthos found a card game while d’Artagnan sat at the table, finding enjoyment in watching his friends. He could feel the starting to settle in his head, but he knew that he was not quite drunk yet, though he would be a bit unsteady on his feet. Athos returned and the two immediately struck up a conversation on the differences between French and Spanish sword fighting styles. Athos tended to become melancholy after drinking, so d’Artagnan kept up a constant but light conversation in order to keep his friend’s attention. Aramis and the barmaid had gone upstairs, d’Artagnan knew that they wouldn’t be done until early morning. Porthos was deeply engrossed in his cardgame, and d’Artagnan knew that his friend would be here for a number of hours still. He and Athos were unusually deep in their conversation (a testament to how much wine Athos had drunk) when d’Artagnan turned his head to a ruckus in the corner. There were about five men, all drunk, in one corner of the tavern. Their clothes were finely made, d’Artagnan guessed that they were with some noble or other, and they were roughhousing playfully. d’Artagnan scoffed and turned away with a smile, he knew that things could sometimes get a little loud in friendly company, his mind drifted off to one incident involving Aramis’ hat. He continued to relish his wine and look round the tavern while continuing his conversation with Athos. He turned to find a pretty barmaid focusing her azure eyes on him. d’Artagnan sent her a small smile and turned back to his wine. He heard a chair scoot up beside him and the barmaid plop herself into it.

     “Hello,” d’Artagnan said quietly.

     “Hello yourself, what’s your name?” she asked quietly.

     “I am d’Artagnan, and yourself?” he replied, glad he wasn’t slurring.

     “I am Sybelle,” she said lowly, leaning forwards.

     “Beautiful name, what can I do for you Sybelle?” d’Artagnan asked, hoping that this would be a night to remember. The lady looked about to the answer when one of the young men in the corner made himself known.

     “Oy, girl, bring ush shome more wine!” he slurred, pounding his empty bottle on the table. Sybelle winced before getting up and plastering a fake smile on her lips. She went to the bar and sashayed over to the table. She quickly set down the bottle and turned towards d’Artagnan and a now bemused (and swaying) Athos. However, the leader of the rowdy band seemed to have other ideas. He put his hands around Sybelle’s waist and pulled her onto his lap. The girl went pale and tried to wiggle out, but it was no use.

     “I know how to make a girl like you happy,” the man sighed.

     “Hands off!” Sybelle growled, struggling with greater ferocity.

     “Come on now, don’t be shy!” one of the other men crowed. The barkeep now looked nervous and shifty, as if debating on whether or not to intervene. d’Artagnan made the decision for him.

     “She said hands off,” the Gascon said slowly. The man stood up and Sybelle scrambled off his lap.

     “What, you already pay for her?” he asked with a sneer.

     “That doesn’t matter, she said to move on,” d’Artagnan stated.

     “Why should you care what she says, she’s just a whore who got too lofty!” he exclaimed.

     “She’s not a whore, and you’re not a gentleman, and even if she was, you didn’t pay for her. Besides, I don’t think you could pay any woman enough to pleasure you!” d’Artagnan stated.

     “You would dare speak that way to the eldest son of the Comte de Vienne!” the man exclaimed.

     “I dare, now move on,” d’Artagnan growled.

     “He’s right, no one here touches my girls if they don’t want it, now off ya go!” the barkeep yelled, grasping a pistol.

     “I shall not stand this insult to my honor!” the man slurred, walking forward unsteadily. d’Artagnan looked to Porthos, who had put his cards down and was inching towards his own blade. Quite frankly, the Gascon was surprised that the big man hadn’t intervened yet, though he was quite engrossed in his cardgame. The look that d’Artagnan sent Athos was his undoing. His friend was glaring at the man, too drunk to understand the severity of the situation but sober enough to know that his baby brother was in trouble. Then, Athos witnessed something that nearly brought his heart to a stop. The man lurched forward and drew his sword with a ring. Athos paled and instantly started to grasp for his blade.

     “Watch out!” Sybelle screamed from behind the barkeep. d’Artagnan turned around and drew his sword as he did. By the time the man realised what had happened, he was too late to stop himself. Before the minute was done, he had impaled himself on d’Artagnan’s blade. The thrust was through the heart and the man collapsed to the ground. One of the barmaids let out a little yelp, and d’Artagnan knelt down to see if the man still lived. He did not. He looked up to see that the man’s companions had all drawn their swords. He heard a click behind him and heard Athos’ voice.

     “If you value your lives, you will leave. Now,” Athos hissed. He swayed a little on his feet, but kept his pistol trained on the men as they left quickly. “Porthos, collect your money and Aramis, we are leaving,” Athos said quietly. The big man scooped up his coins and ran up the stairs. d’Artagnan pretended he didn’t hear a shrill scream as he heard the door burst open.

     “I’ll get the Red Guards, tell ‘em what happened. You were defendin’ yourself and Sybelle, all of us saw that,” the barkeep said steadily. Sybelle nodded, as did most of the patrons. Porthos descended the stairs with a disheveled Aramis and quickly collected his cloak. d’Artagnan threw an arm around Athos’ shoulder, not trusting him to walk steadily. They arrived at Porthos’ chambers, as those were the closest. d’Artagnan slowly lowered himself and Athos down onto the bed. He helped Athos get his boots off and helped him to lay down. Aramis looked at his friend with a serious expression.

     “Are you hurt?” he asked.

     “I’m fine,” d’Artagnan said automatically and then winced. That was probably the worst answer he could’ve given, considering what had happened recently with Vadim and other disastrous adventures. Aramis grinned and nodded towards Porthos. The big man was across the room before d’Artagnan could even blink and had the young man in his arms. d’Artagnan struggled weakly, but it was no use.

     “Now now,” Aramis said quietly, “This is for your own good. I won’t let Piana happen again!”

     “I swear, I didn’t even know I was shot...at least until we got on our horses!” d’Artagnan cried.

     “And then you waited until you collapsed quite spectacularly on the road to tell us you were wounded,” Aramis deadpanned.

     “Well, I couldn’t get treatment with the bandits after us!” d’Artagnan yelped. Aramis pulled at d’Artagnan’s doublet and soon had it off.

     “Either we do this now or Athos does it in the morning,” Aramis smirked, knowing that this would get the boy to stop struggling, which it did. 

     “He’ll do it in the morning anyways,” d’Artagnan pouted.

     “And better if he finds bandaged injuries than a wounded puppy,” Aramis sighed. He glossed over d’Artagnan, and pronounced him fine, breathing a sigh of relief.

     “Porthos, you and I will take the floor,” Aramis yawned. Porthos groaned dramatically and threw himself next to Aramis.

     “Why do the guests get the bed?” Porthos groaned.

     “Because that’s what good hosts do,” Aramis yawned, “And we both know that Athos would rather wake up next to d’Artagnan.” Porthos smirked and d’Artagnan had the good grace to blush. When he closed his eyes in sleep, he felt arms encircle him and something nuzzling his neck. No nightmares or horrid images plagued him that night as he slept in the arms of the man who meant the world to him.

     When Athos woke the next morning, it was to voices trying to whisper. “Should we wake them up?” Aramis giggled.

     “Naw, I wanna watch them for a few more minutes. They’re adorable,” Porthos sighed. Athos groaned and snuggled deeper into his pillow, he had much too big a headache to deal with whatever his friends had come up with as a prank. Wait, did his pillow snuggle him back?! His eyes flew open to find the Gascon in his arms! He quickly but carefully put d’Artagnan down and got out of the bed, all without waking the boy up. He staggered to his bucket and splashed water on his face. Aramis and Porthos grinned at him from the table.

     “What is so funny, considering the circumstances of our return last night?” Athos growled, not in the mood for games. Both of their smirks were soon wiped off their faces at the remembrance and they looked at one another.

     “We’ll have to tell Treville once we get to the garrison,” Aramis sighed. Athos nodded and went to rouse their young counterpart. Before the hour was up, they were all dressed and heading to the garrison. They would normally stopped for changes of clothes, but they thought better of it since today was going to be a day of training, and Treville needed to know what happened. They went to straight to Treville’s office and soon were bid to enter. d’Artagnan, with some input to the two witnesses to the event, explained the entire story. Treville sighed with a small smile.

     “That’s good, I was just summoned to the palace shortly before you came,” Treville sighed.

     “Why are we goin’ to the palace if d’Artagnan was just defendin’ himself?” Porthos asked.

     “As d’Artagnan said, his father was the Comte de Vienne, so he probably will want it confirmed that it was self defence,” Treville said. The four of them made their way to the palace and were immediately admitted into the presence of the king and queen. There was a red-eyed and furious man standing at the bottom of the dais. d’Artagnan already saw the barkeep and many of the patrons of the Golden Crown gathered. Sybelle gave him a small smile as he walked by.

     “d’Artagnan, the Comte de Vienne has informed that his son was murdered last night by you,” Louis said with a frown.

     “Your Majesty, perhaps we had better hear d’Artagnan’s side of the story before making judgement,” the queen said quietly. d’Artagnan breathed a sigh of relief that the Cardinal was not here. Haltingly, d’Artagnan told his story. One by one, the witnesses were called. The Red Guards must have been gathering them all night. d’Artagnan saw the Comte growing angrier and angrier as the process went on. It was obvious he thought the witnesses would side with him. After the last witness was finished, the king sighed.

     “While I am sorry for the loss of your son Comte, it seems my musketeer acted in self defense,” Louis said quietly.

     “I agree, while I am sorry for the loss of your child, I will not punish an innocent man for an accidental death,” the queen said with a hint of steel.

     “Sire I beg you!” the Comte spluttered.

     “While I understand your grief, I will not have him punished, now that is the end of the matter,” Louis stated.

     “Please sire!” the Comte plead.

     “I shall hear no more of it Comte,” Louis stated. He offered the queen his hand, and together they walked through the doors and away from the grieving father and relieved musketeers.

     “Do not think that some lowly Gascon cur will get away with the murder of my son?!” he spat. Treville placed a forceful hand on the man’s shoulder.

     “d’Artagnan was only defending himself and the honor of a woman,” Treville stated, “The king has found him innocent, you had best remember that Comte.” The Comte de Vienne spat on the floor and walked away, slamming the doors behind him. Treville ran a hand through his short hair. “Athos, Porthos, Aramis, I want you to stay in the garrison with d’Artagnan. I think it would be best if you just stayed in the garrison for a few days and kept quiet,” Treville ordered. d’Artagnan would have protested, but Athos clapped him on the shoulder and led him away.

     “The Comte will not forget what you have done, my friend. What Treville has suggested is for the best, besides, we’ll have two or three days to enjoy one another’s company,” Athos reminded the young man. d’Artagnan’s lips formed a pout, but the young Gascon allowed himself to be led to the garrison. They arrived without incident and were allocated to one of the larger guest rooms in the garrison. Three days, two major arguments, fourteen minor arguments, ten pranks, twenty bottles of wine, and one massive teasing bout later, the inseparables were ready to kill one another. Treville, probably realizing that his orders would involve him in said mass murder, finally allowed the musketeers to return to their own rooms. d’Artagnan was cautious for the first five days after this, but soon let down his guard, thinking that the Comte had realized that he hadn’t murdered his son. One the sixth night, they went to one of their more frequented taverns. d’Artagnan had been on palace duty for the last four days, and knew that he would be expected to return early on the morrow. Therefore, he left hours earlier than any of his companions. When he finished a few glasses of wine, he tapped Athos on the shoulder. “Leaving so soon?” Athos asked.

     “Remember, we have palace duty tomorrow, and I want to get some sleep,” d’Artagnan stated.

     “Good night then, I’ll see you on the morrow,” Athos stated, inclining his head and returning to his drink. d’Artagnan nodded to Porthos, who smirked at him and returned to cheating three Red Guards blind. d’Artagnan was about five blocks from the tavern when he came across an alley. Before, he could react, a hand was clapped over his mouth and he was pulled into the alley. One of his attackers released his hold on his mouth, only to pour a horrid-tasting liquid into it. d’Artagnan choked and tried to spit it up, but a hand was clapped over his mouth once more. As he drifted into darkness, he was absently reminded of Aramis’ sleeping teas. He slumped into the arms of his attacker and knew no more. Two figures in cloaks stepped closer to the street as the Gascon was lowered to ground. One opened a skin and started to pour a red substance onto the ground, blood. The two men who held d’Artagnan instantly stripped him to his braes, slashing his clothes and scattering them in the alleyway. The four figures, along with their sleeping prisoner, disappeared into the Parisian darkness.

**Two weeks later**

     Treville slammed his fist down on his desk. Athos did not even react, and this only scared Treville all the more.

     “Please Athos, you mustn’t do this to yourself!” Treville dared to almost plead. Athos looked up at him with bloodshot and bleary eyes.

     “He’s not dead,” he murmured.

     “Then where is he Athos? Where is he? We’ve checked every brothel, every tavern, every infirmary, and every place they take the dead. Heaven help us, the king even ordered us to sift the Seine for three days last week! Please Athos, you must not do this to yourself! I’m sorry, but at the end of the day, if d’Artagnan has not returned, I am forced to declare him dead, and bury him with the respect he deserves,” Treville pleaded.

     “He was my son, the son I never had, and the closest thing I’ll ever get to one. How can you expect me to just bury him! I haven’t slept in days Captain, imagining the things that the monster who has him might be doing! I can’t eat, I can’t sleep, every waking moment I only see him, telling me that I should have followed him from the tavern last night!” Athos breathed. Treville’s heart burst at the pain his men were in. He’d already had this talk with the other two separately. Aramis was barely in this world. His eyes were dull and wandering, his hair unkempt, his clothes unwashed. He didn’t even say anything when Treville told him his decision. When Treville had asked him if he’d understood, he replied with a “yes captain”, and sat at the table they always had their breakfast at. Four hours later, he was still there. Porthos was fighting anyone who would punch him back. Mean men, big men, older men, young men, Porthos fought them all. He’d seen it with many of his men, the guilt that manifested itself in rage. Porthos had screamed bloody murder at him for over an hour before collapsing in a heap on the floor. He was down with Aramis now, and Treville’s heart sang when he saw Aramis gift Porthos with an answer. Athos was drinking himself into oblivion. Treville had never thought that Athos was holding back on his drinking before, but he saw the falsehood in that now. He was surprised the man could even understand him, let alone walk straight. He prayed that the barkeeps had finally cut him off. Treville wanted to cry at the raw want in the eyes of a man who gave everything, but never took anything. Treville didn’t know what kind of demons Athos had, it wasn’t his business, but he knew that whatever d’Artagnan had done, it had helped. Athos was right, he knew, d’Artagnan was the son he never had, or would ever have. d’Artagnan wasn’t here anymore, but Treville was, and so was Athos. Treville pulled Athos into a seat and knelt down in front of him.

     “Athos, would d’Artagnan want this? If he was the son, then you were a second father to him. I saw the adoration he looked at you with every day, how deep your scoldings went, how he strived every day just to make you smile. Would he want you to drink yourself into oblivion?” Treville asked softly. He absolutely was not above using a dead man in order to ensure that the living carried on. “Will you force Aramis and Porthos to bury two brothers?” he whispered. Athos looked at him with a deep sadness.

     “They might not have a choice, Captain,” he breathed out. With that, he staggered up and away from Treville, down the stairs, and out the gates. Treville thanked God for small miracles when a calm Porthos and an awake Aramis followed him from a discreet distance.

     Athos needed a drink. No, actually he didn’t, he needed his puppy back. But it was no use crying over what he couldn’t have, so a drink would have to do. He stumbled into his rooms and bolted the door. He grabbed a wine bottle and lay down on the bed. His vision grew fuzzy and his mind muddled about halfway through. Good, it was taking less time to work, to shut out the pain in his heart that would.not.stop. He heard screaming, it was muffled, but it sounded a little like his name. Ah well, it was no matter, his muffled mind told him. His muffled mind was a fool, for when the screams weren’t heeded, the door was kicked in. The large form of Porthos loomed in the door, and Aramis soon rushed past him. He ripped the bottle from his hands, earning a keening whine from Athos. Aramis did him the disservice of throwing it against the wall. Aramis was hysterical, and though Porthos looked calm, Athos could see the panic in his eyes.

     “Go ‘way,” he growled. Porthos sat down on his left and Aramis on his right.

     “No, we’re not gonna go away. We’re not gonna let you drink yourself to death,” Porthos whispered. Athos wondered where his black eye came from. Aramis looked like he’d been through hell and back.

     “Gonna bury ‘im tomorrow, can’t bury ‘im, don’t like the dark,” Athos whispered, remembering a halting conversation after d’Artagnan had panicked in a mine tunnel. He heard Aramis choke back a sob. Porthos rubbed his back.

     “No, he don’t like the dark,” Porthos whispered.

     “Can’t go, have to teach ‘im not to be stupid,” Athos breathed out.

     “Yes, he definitely needs to learn that lesson,” Aramis replied with a watery smile.

     “Tell ‘im not to go,” Athos begged, “‘Ave to tell him I’m sorry, should have walked him home, dangerous.”

     “Oh Athos, he doesn’t blame you, he never would,” Aramis whispered.

     “Need ‘im,” Athos pleaded, finally voicing the one thought that had been running through his mind the entire time.

     “You have us,” Aramis replied.

     “Yeah, we’ll be right here, we’re not leavin’,” Porthos added.

     “Stay?” Athos whispered.

     “Yeah, right here,” Porthos replied quietly.

     “Always,” Aramis said.

     “Can’t forget him,” Athos said fiercely. Porthos and Aramis looked at one another, acknowledgement in their eyes.

     “Porthos and I have something for you. Something to remind you that d’Artagnan will always be with you, even though he might not be here in body,” Aramis said quietly. Porthos brought out a package and set it in Athos’ lap.

     “Serge had it cleaned, wrapped it, and gave it to us today,” Porthos said. Athos unwrapped the package and hiccuped back a sob. d’Artagnan’s cloak, washed of all the blood, lay in front of him.

     “So that he’ll always be right here,” Aramis said quietly, “Serge gave me his pauldron and Porthos said that he was given his blade.” Athos felt his eyes close, his mind finally giving in to the dark.

     “I think he’s finally goin’ down,” Porthos sighed, “Probably hasn’t slept in days.” With that, his two best friends in the world pulled the cloak to his chest and laid him down on the bed. Aramis put his back to the wall and wrapped his arms around Athos, Porthos took the outside, always the protector of his friends. And Athos, Comte de la Fere, sobbed in the arms of his friend until the morning dawned. And if he clutched a soft, blue cloak like a lifeline, not one person said a word. He finally drifted into the arms of sleep and did not waken until the day of the funeral. When he did waken, it was to soft voices.

     “He’s been asleep for two days, should we wake him up?” Aramis whispered.

     “Captain said to let him sleep until we have to bring him to the funeral. He said that he hadn’t been eatin’ well and he hadn’t slept for days before this,” Porthos sighed.

     “What are we going to do? What are we going to do with him, with us?” Aramis whispered.

     “We’ll be alright,” Porthos sighed.

     “Will we?” Aramis choked out.

     “We’ll have to be. He can’t do this by himself Aramis. It’s gonna be a hard road between the three of us, he needs us. He’s gonna bury the man that was like a son to him, and we can’t even do him the courtesy of puttin’ a body in the coffin!” Porthos replied.

     “You’re right, no matter what happens, we both have to be strong,” Aramis stated. Athos cuddled the cloak he held in his arms, silently thanking Serge for removing the buttons. He groaned and blinked his eyes.

     “Oy, look who’s up,” Porthos said with a smile.

     “Gentlemen,” Athos greeted. Before he could say anything else, a smiling Aramis (though it really didn’t reach his eyes) attacked him with broth and a scolding about drinking. Four hours later, they assembled for the funeral. All of the musketeers were there, along with Constance Bonacieux, though her husband did not grace them with his presence. Treville gave a speech, along with Athos, Porthos, and Aramis. Athos swallowed a sob when he saw the inscription on d’Artagnan’s gravestone.

_Charles d’Artagnan of the King’s Musketeers_

_Son, brother, fighter_

**One year later**

     Oh God, please let it end. d’Artagnan had begged and begged, but it never happened. He asked the woman who came once a day to give him his cup of water. He asked the man who came in every three days with food. He asked the man who came in the morning to beat him. He pleaded with the man who came in the afternoon to beat him. He cried at the man who came in the evening to beat him. He howled at the Comte de Vienne who came in once every seven days to give him a special beating. They never asked him any questions, never asked him for information, though he never had any to begin with. They just beat him. The Comte said that it was for his son, his son that he would have vengeance for. d’Artagnan pleaded, but it was no use. He said that his friends would never find him, nearly a year ago they’d had a funeral for him. He remembered his mother telling him stories of how a white knight on a shining steed would always rescue the fair maiden. There was no knight for him. d’Artagnan was alone, and that was just as crippling as the pain, he would never see his friends again. He would never see Porthos laugh, see Aramis smile, get one of the Athos’ rare hugs. These were the thoughts that kept him sane. He was still in the braes that he had worn when he was captured. They’d taken everything, from his boots to his pauldron. He hadn’t had human conversation in ages. The servants wouldn’t talk to him and the Comte de Vienne didn’t talk to him outside the explanation of why he was there and the insults that were thrown at him. d’Artagnan had been chained to the walls for all his time there. His legs and wrists were both spread and chained to opposite walls. He hadn’t been unchained. He could no longer feel his arms or legs. He kept count of the days by the times they brought him water. He’d lost track of the days after fifty. What did it matter? There was no one coming for him, and he didn’t blame them. He was weak, the weak link. They could hardly be expected to risk it all and come for him. He only knew the servants because the light from outside the cell shone in the door when they came in. He was in total darkness. His hair was down past his shoulders, he could feel it. His skin was probably as pale as paper. His lips were cracked. His wrists and ankles were a mess of scabs. His clothes were now brown from filth, he’d looked at them today in a fit of curiosity. He was worthless, he was weak. He had to rescue himself, or get himself killed in the process. His friends were not coming for him. They wouldn’t come for the weak link. He amused himself with imaging a new mission, his new amusement when he’d imagined actual missions a hundred times each. His body was one big bruise, he was sure that they’d broken every bone in his body. What would he do if he escaped? He couldn’t stand the light anymore. But he had to make it back to his friends! They thought he was dead, poor Athos! What he wouldn’t give to see Athos, even if it was with his dying breath. He imagined his mission and took solace in it.

     “It shouldn’t be more than a seven day trip,” Treville ended. Athos nodded and accepted the letter they were to deliver. Even today, Treville was still giving them easier missions. Though, he couldn’t really blame him, he knew that the inseparables had changed dramatically. Aramis was quieter, Porthos did not laugh as often, and he was more apt to have cracks in the mask he always wore. Athos and the others gathered their supplies, mounted up, and rode into the morning shadows.

     d’Artagnan woke up with the stupidest plan he’d ever come up with. It was so simple! And yet, it made so much sense! The lady had just come in with his water, and he knew that he didn’t have much time after that. He went absolutely limp against the chains and hung there. Just in time, for he heard the door creak open. The guard sighed and looked at him.

     “Guess you finally gave it up, though I can’t seem to blame you,” the guard sighed, “Never did like what we had to do to ya, but I have my orders.” Heard keys jingling and the sound of one of his chains being rattled. A shackle fell off, and his arm dropped down. Now was his chance! His arm swept out, and by a stroke of luck he got to the guard’s pistol. He struck the guard over the head as hard as he could, and the guard went down like a sack of stones. He finally reached the guard’s keys, and he was able to unlock himself through some miracle. Finally, he was free!! He wanted to whoop for joy, but he had to be quiet. He staggered out the door, his legs felt like lead, and locked it. He stayed in the corridor shivering for a bit, but he knew that he had to work quickly. He staggered up some stairs and praised God that he found himself in a courtyard. He snuck out the servant’s entrance and hit the road. He cried in relief when he realized that he wasn’t one day from Paris, but that was on horseback. It would take him at least two days to walk in his condition, and it was in the middle of winter! His feet were already red and stinging, but d’Artagnan couldn’t very well go back and ask for a pair of boots. He stumbled along the side of the path as fast as he could. His eyes stung so badly, and his head was on fire. His feet were numb, and he kept falling in the snow. He couldn’t stop walking. Even if he was as tired as anything, he knew that he couldn’t stop walking, or else he would never get up again. He kept going. He was stumbling blindly when he entered Paris and crashed into a man. The man cursed at him and kept on moving. d’Artagnan used the wall for support and hoisted himself up. The garrison was another mile’s walk, but he could manage it. He had to be his own white knight in shining armor. Using the wall for support, he stumbled towards the garrison. No one would be at home, he knew. Otherwise, he would have gone to one of their residences. His feet were bleeding, bleeding so profusely that he literally had bloody footprints following behind him. d’Artagnan literally cried when he saw the garrison. It was in the grey dawn when he stumbled in and crawled up the steps. Luckily the guards were just changing and he wasn’t barred from the garrison. He crawled up the steps to Treville’s office and knocked his fist twice against the door. The door was ripped open and he lay on the floor in a heap.

     “Cap’n,” he breathed.

     “d-d’Artagnan,” he choked out. d’Artagnan found the strength to lift up his head and smile.

     “Home,” he breathed. Just then, the darkness closed in.

     Treville could never say that he had been as astounded as when Charles d’Artagnan pounded on his door that morning. When the lad passed out, Treville finally was shocked out of his reverie.

     “Serge!!” he screamed, “Anyone!!” The men who had just gotten on guard duty scrambled up the stairs, took one look at the prone figure, and knelt down. “Raoul, go get the physician!” Treville commanded. One of the guards instantly did as instructed and went dashing down the stairs. “Come on lad, don’t die on me now, your brothers’ll be wanting to see you. Actually, they might never let you out of their sight,” Treville chuckled. He was glad that the inseparables were due back in four days or less.

     “Athos,” Porthos groaned, “Can we please stop at an inn now?”

     “Yes, we’re already two days ahead of schedule,” Aramis added.

     “No, I think we should continue on,” Athos stated.

     “But why?” Aramis almost whined.

     “I have a feeling that we are needed back in Paris,” Athos said quietly. That got his two companions to listen. When Athos had a feeling, he was always right.

**Two days later**

     d’Artagnan was finally warm. When the last time was that he had been warm, he could not begin to say. It seemed as if something was resting on him. He cracked open his eyes to find a pile of blankets so tall that he couldn’t see over them. He groaned and twisted a little, aggravating his numerous injuries. Also, he felt a few blankets wrapped tightly around him. Apparently, Treville saw fit to swaddle him. He tested getting up and was forced to lie back down with a groan. He wanted to see Athos, Porthos, and Aramis. He had to let them know he was alive! He was lying in bed, debating on where his friends were, when he heard cries from outside. That sounded like Athos! He was here! All thoughts of pain fled from the Gascon as he fairly leaped out of bed and out the door. He noticed that he was in a thick, cotton nightshirt. Also, his feet looked to be twice the size they were, due to the bandages around them. He quietly went out the door and groaned at the sunlight reflecting off the snow. He opened his eyes and saw that he was in the guest room next to Treville’s office. He also saw those whom he loved most in the world getting of their tired horses. Treville was down talking with Athos in a very deep conversation. Athos’ eyes drifted up to d’Artagnan, and there they stopped.

     “Athos, Porthos, Aramis!” d’Artagnan cried. Porthos went pale under his dark skin and Aramis gave a shrill yelp. “Athos, Porthos, Aramis!” d’Artagnan croaked out. Athos was shoved forward by Treville, and that gave him the incentive needed. The man raced forward and threw himself at d’Artagnan. The Gascon was not nearly strong enough for the weight, and they both were driven to their knees, though neither cared. Athos was kissing him on the brow and then carding his hands through his long hair in awe.

     “Oh thank you God, thank you God, thank you, thank you, thank you God,” Athos sobbed. He pulled the young man into his lap and rocked him. d’Artagnan finally felt safe, after a year of suffering he was finally where he belonged. He sighed in contentment and snuggled deeply into the embrace. Athos shook with wracking sobs. He heard pounding feet and looked up in time to see Porthos thundering up the stairs while Aramis conversed quickly with Treville. Porthos crossed in front of Athos and d’Artagnan and embraced them both from the front. Completely surrounded by his friends, d’Artagnan relished in the warm and laid his head against Athos’ beating heart. He heard Aramis’ light steps and knew that he would soon be undergoing a very thorough examination. Behind the medic came another set of steps. Aramis knelt down and tried to get a look at d’Artagnan. Realizing that Athos was not letting go anytime soon, Porthos backed away. d’Artagnan let out a mewl-like whine and burrowed deeper into Athos. The man pressed a hand to d’Artagnan’s forehead, and the young man sighed at the warmth of it. “He’s freezing Aramis!” Athos hissed. Aramis instantly crouched down and looked at the young man. d’Artagnan saw Treville beside his friends.

     “What were thinking, coming out in the snow with just a nightshirt and bandages?! I know that you haven’t been up until today!” Treville scolded.

     “Enough of this, let’s get you inside,” Aramis sighed. Athos scooped up his friend and Porthos opened the door. Athos sat on the bed and settled d’Artagnan next to him so that Aramis could examine him. Porthos also put his arm around d’Artagnan’s shoulders and offered him support. Aramis was soon unlacing the nightshirt and undoing bandages. d’Artagnan shivered at the cold and Aramis looked at him with scolding eyes.

     “How long has he been asleep?” Aramis asked.

     “Two days, he was obviously exhausted when he came in,” Treville sighed. Aramis undid the bandages around his feet and gasped in shock.

     “Took my boots,” d’Artagnan said quietly.

     “So you walked here with bare feet?!” Aramis hissed.

     “Had to get away,” d’Artagnan sighed. Athos let d’Artagnan lean his head on his shoulder and carded a hand through his hair as Aramis cleaned the cuts. He then gave d’Artagnan a full examination and sighed.

     “He’s dehydrated and starved, I can count his ribs easily enough. He has bruises on every part of his body, his chest has marks possibly made by a knife, his back is a mess of scars, the soles of his feet have been shredded, his muscles are strained, especially those in his arms and legs, he’s sensitive to light, and the skin around his wrists and ankles has been rubbed off,” Aramis sighed, “And that’s not mentioning the hypothermia and possible illness in your chest that you could get from being outside and walking with rags.” 

     “What of infection?” Athos whispered.

     “None so far, thank God,” Aramis sighed, “But you’ll not be getting out of that bed for a month.”

     “A month?!” d’Artagnan cried.

     “And that’s without complications!” Aramis added.

     “But-” the Gascon whimpered.

     “If Aramis says a month, then a month it will be,” Treville stated. d’Artagnan would have argued more, but he was interrupted by a yawn.

     “Oy, I think someone needs his rest,” Porthos whispered. Aramis nodded and fished some medicine out of a bag. Athos had still not said much after hearing of d’Artagnan’s injuries. Aramis brought a cup of warm tea to his lips. The bitter taste made d’Artagnan gag.

     “Easy now, just let it go down,” Athos soothed as he carefully rubbed d’Artagnan’s back. He finished off the entire cup and slowly drifted to sleep.

     “Stay?” he asked quietly.

     “Always,” all three men answered. He fell asleep with Athos carding through his hair and Porthos humming a song Porthos said his mother would sing. When d’Artagnan opened his eyes once more, it was to a scene that would forever make him smile. Athos was asleep on his left, an arm thrown protectively over his chest. Porthos was to his right, an arm over d’Artagnan’s stomach, and Aramis was curled up like a cat at d’Artagnan’s feet. The Gascon tried not to move, so as not to awaken his friends, but it was no use. Aramis shot up and gave him a grin. He stretched an arm over Porthos and smiled.

     “You’re warmer, are you hungry?” he asked. d’Artagnan nodded and Aramis was soon pushing broth and medicine-laced tea into him. By the time he was done, Athos and Porthos were up.

     “d-d’Artagnan?” Athos asked quietly. Aramis looked at the man in confusion at the careful tone.

     “What is it?” he asked.

     “Who did this, who took you, what happened?” Athos asked. Porthos sat up straighter and Aramis’ face darkened. A shudder passed through d’Artagnan, and he was soon in Athos’ arms.

     “I’m sorry,” he sighed.

     “Maybe later,” Aramis said.

     “No, I think we ought to know now. Treville and the king gotta know,” Porthos said quietly.

     “It’s alright d’Artagnan, nothing can hurt you,” Athos soothed. And so the story came spilling out in broken pieces. Athos held d’Artagnan the whole way through and when he finally made it through, all three of his brothers were shaking in rage.

     “I’ll get Treville,” Porthos rumbled. Two weeks later, the Comte de Vienne was hung, it was said that even the king and queen were present. A month later, d’Artagnan walked slowly down to the breakfast table with Athos’ arm around his waist, with loud cheers echoing through the garrison. He was home with his brothers. The white knight had prevailed. 


End file.
